


The Hurting, The Healing

by philippcarlyle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley cries, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, more like extended scene, not really tho because you know they're just idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philippcarlyle/pseuds/philippcarlyle
Summary: Crowley comes to the burning bookshop.The scene from Crowley's perspective, with some liberties and a soft ending.





	The Hurting, The Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This one's angsty, I'm sorry.
> 
> This is based on a prompt I received from [@beesus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beesus/pseuds/Beesus) ! 
> 
> I suggest listening to Queen's "Love of My Life", as this is what this work is based on!  
> Happy feels, enjoy x

Aziraphale had tried to call him. He hung up on him. He  _ has left him alone.  _ Crowley feels hot tears on his face. His hands tremble. Had he just taken the stupid call and listened to his angel. He could have protected him. He  _ should have  _ protected him. Be there for him.

His hands act on their own accord, find a book that isn’t yet burned to ash. He presses it to his chest. Smoke or tears cloud his vision, he can’t tell and he doesn’t care. Someone took his angel from him. A bitter taste forms on his tongue. Not  _ someone.  _ A certain Someone has stopped caring for them a long time ago. This was heaven’s army’s work. 

Crowley lifts his head, book still pressed close. The flames lick at the ceiling, surround him in an almost comfortable way. He’s never felt fond of hellfire. He aches for soothing, cold water. 

“Why are you doing this? I’m not- this isn’t about me, do you hear me?!”

He glares at the bright orange ceiling, edges turning black already. A strength he didn’t think he had left forces him onto his feet. He snarls at the unseen - and probably not listening - entity.

“This is not about me! For  _ once. This is not about me!  _ This is about him, he did not deserve this, what has he done to you? Punish me, I am the demon. I am the tempter. Blame  _ me,  _ if you want to hurt anyone! Not him. Never him, he’s an  _ angel! Shouldn’t you  _ **_love him_ ** ?!”

Crowley sobs and just when he thinks his legs will give out, a powerful jet of water hits him. Splinters of glass bite their way into his arms and face. He doesn’t care. 

He’s still facing the ceiling, now on his back. Miraculously, the book is still hugged to his body. “I know you’re not listening,” he whispers. “You never do nowadays. But it doesn’t matter. It has never mattered.” It has. Crowley knows it and if any God is listening, they hear his lie, see it in his eyes, taste it in the burnt air.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters to himself and gets up. He’s dripping, his legs and back hurt worse than they did after his fall so long ago. His soul aches - he never acknowledges it. Never has, because it’s never been quite like that. 

He stumbles out of the burning building, book under his scorched jacket, glasses long lost. A fireman tries to talk to him, Crowley doesn’t hear him. The car awaits him. He drops the book inside and forces his foot on the gas pedal in the same moment. If he lets himself stop for just one second, the aching could take him down. 

_ Love of my life, you’ve hurt me… _

_ You’ve broken my heart and now you leave me… _

The Bentley drives on its own accord. Crowley couldn’t navigate through the traffic even if he tried to. He doesn’t try. His eyes are closed, his head pressed into the headrest.

_ Bring it back, bring it back _

_ Don’t take it away from me, because _

_ you don’t know what it means to me… _

Aziraphale’s bright eyes, his soft smile flicker into Crowley’s mind. He releases a shuddering breath, forbidding it to turn into a sob. His body is not his Bentley. He can compel plants and cars and doors to perform like he wants them to. But his heart does not obey him, never has. He puts a new pair of sunglasses on.

_...how I still love you _

_ I still love you… _

The Bentley races through London’s traffic, neither the car nor its passenger knowing where they’re going. When it stops, the music is turned off. Harsh breathes, on the verge of hyperventilating, cut through the silence. Crowley blinks. 

His ears ring, from the music, from memories of Aziraphale’s voice, from fire’s spit.

When he finally gazes out of the windscreen, he realises the Bentley parks in front of a pub. Despite himself, he laughs. He doesn’t recognise his own voice. The book flies to his hands, the car locks itself, his feet carry him inside and his body falls into a chair.

The barkeeper shoots him a sceptical look, then brings him the first drink - Crowley keeps the whole bottle. Maybe he can drown his heart and his soul and this horrible aching. A table napkin taunts him. Crowley shuts it up with a vigorous rub over his eyes. 

He is on his second bottle of - something strong, he neither knows nor cares for what it is he is drinking, when he begins to pluck glass shards out of his skin. Red drops sit stark against his skin, the napkin and are swallowed by the wooden table. 

“How ironic,” he mutters, voice devoid of any emotion. Who would have guessed that he bleeds red like any human? He is a demon. He should bleed black. Or not at all.

The second bottle is half emptied when he finally looks at the book. Why did he take it? 

He opens the book and thumbs through a few pages. Sticky notes clatter the margins.

“Oh, ang-,” his voice breaks. He can’t even say his name. It is  _ not his name _ he reminds himself. A flood of emotions washes over him that he pushes back, far back, so they never come back. The flood doesn’t bend to his will. Lazy waves wash over his feet, over his hands, take up more and more space.

Crowley stares at Aziraphale’s neat handwriting, not comprehending a single word. He carefully places the book in his lap, as to not spill anything on it. 

“Why did you leave me?”

He waves at the barkeeper without looking over, ready for the next drink. Maybe he could flush these feelings out of his system. Maybe it could soothe his aching. The aching. Really, rather Aching with a capital A. What is it?

It’s his heart, his head tells him. And his soul, adds his heart. Crowley feels the aching in his whole body and beyond any earthly limits. It feels like he has lost himself. 

No, not quite. He looks down at his ashy, bloody hands. The trembling comes back when he grabs the bottle. He abandoned the glass after the first sip and drinks straight from the bottle. The alcohol’s burning is cold, cold compared to the fire, cold compared to his inner turmoil.

But he hasn’t lost himself. No, he’s lost himself way before today. Today, he’s lost the one thing that made him  _ feel  _ like he wasn't lost. That kept him in place, took care of his sanity without even trying to. 

It’s good that the world ends today, he thinks heavy-hearted and closes his eyes. 

“Crowley?”

Crowley stifles a cry and shakes his head. No, no, he’s not drunk enough to deal with hallucinations. Definitely not. He opens his eyes to take another swig. Then he sees him. Oh Sata- Go- Fuck, he really is hallucinating.

Regardless, he pushes his glasses up into his hair.

“A-A-ziraphale?” He's slow and unsteady, not just because of the drinks he's had.

“Yes, I-,” Aziraphale’s ghost-hallucination-fata morgana wobbles and it’s a miracle how it seems to manage sitting on the chair in front of him. Crowley is so shocked by now, he doesn’t bother to question it.

“You’re here,” he says, voice weaker than he would have liked. He cannot find the will to care right now. He’s talking to Aziraphale and this is all that matters.

“I, technically, yes. Got discorporated, unfortunately.” 

Discorporated. Discorporated. 

“ _ Discorporated? _ ” He can’t believe it. Aziraphale, who is not so much a hallucination, but his discorporated self, swirling through the dimensions, nods.

“Yes, Crowley. You need to go to my bookshop and get a book-,” the translucent Aziraphale stops when he sees Crowley’s pained expression. 

Crowley burrows his head in his hands, but doesn’t dare to take his eyes off of Aziraphale for too long, afraid he’d vanish again. He can’t lose him. He  _ must not  _ lose him.

“Y-yeah. Your b-book shop. It burned down,” Crowley says. He gazes through Aziraphale, feels the horror and the hurt already. If he had gotten there earlier - he could have stopped Aziraphale from being discorporated, he could have prevented the shop from burning. He should have been there, protecting his angel, taking care of him. 

“Oh,” is all Aziraphale replies. “...all of it?”

Crowley sighs and nods, afraid of his voice breaking again. Then, only to show his angel that he cares, he asks: “Y-yeah. W-what was the book?”

“The one the young lady with the bicycle left behind, ‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies o-”

“Agnes Nutter!” Crowley can’t believe it. He frantically looks down, lifts the book from his lap and shows it, relieved to do one thing for his angel right. “I took it,” he tells him, voice and countenance a mess. New tears well up, but he manages a smile.

“You have it!” Aziraphale’s voice washes over him, liberating him better than any drink ever could. He miracles his hands and arms whole, no traces of blood are left. The aching stops. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think about it!


End file.
